


Catharsis

by Novels



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Mourning, Mycroft is just a man after all, Post-Reichenbach, canon compliant until Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:20:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24883723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Novels/pseuds/Novels
Summary: Catharsis, Lestrade thought bitterly, only worked insofar one actually found some relief. He came away from Sherlock’s grave feeling emptier, sure, but not any better. At least, he shrugged to himself, empty was better than filled with pain.Lestrade stumbles upon an old friend on his way back to visiting Sherlock's grave. Revelations ensue.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 4
Kudos: 88





	Catharsis

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't dabbled in Mystrade for what feels like centuries, people, but I've been walking down memory lane so much these past few months that I felt the insuppressible need to give it another go.  
> So here's a little Mystrade story, angsty and sweet and just a tad dramatic, because it is Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade we are talking about here, after all.  
> Enjoy!

The wind picked up as Lestrade made his way through the graves and he pulled at the lapels of his coat, trying to draw them closer together to keep warm. He tucked his scarf inside his coat and fished his gloves from his pocket, pulling them on. The sky was looming over his head, dark clouds heavy with unshed rain hiding the sun and throwing long shadows on the ground. In the distance, lightning fell, followed by muffled thunder. 

Lestrade stopped in front of a dark tombstone and distractedly kicked away the dry leaves that the wind had left in front of it. 

_Sherlock Holmes,_ it said in bold, golden letters. No dates, no _in loving memory_. Just two words carved into shiny black stone. It suited the man under it, or so he thought.

What a waste, he mused, as he always did on his regular visits. What a waste, that a man like Sherlock had thrown away his life like that. And what a shame, that Lestrade had done nothing to avoid it, that he had not noticed the signs. Even after a year, he had to fight down the guilt that threatened to constrict his throat. Life was unfair, he knew, but staring at the golden letters and seeing John’s haunted gaze instead, he couldn’t help but wonder why it had to be so painful, too.

He stood in front of the tombstone for a long time, hands hid away in his pockets, thinking about the emptiness Sherlock had left behind, about how broken everyone who had cared for him still was. He met with John every week, kept up the tradition they had established early in their acquaintance. There was slow improvement, and healing. Lestrade could admit to that. Could even cherish it. But John was still the ghost of the man he used to be. He couldn’t face returning to Baker Street yet. Lestrade was starting to suspect he never would, and perhaps it was better that way. Mrs. Hudon had agreed, when he had expressed his opinion on the matter during a recent visit. The flat felt like sacred ground, she had told him. Better leave it undisturbed. Better let it hold the memory of the great man who had lived there, and of his loyal companion. Lestrade knew Mycroft kept paying her rent, whatever his reasons were. One day, he might get the older Holmes to reveal them.

With a sigh, he said his goodbye to the dead. He would be back in a fortnight or so, when repressed guilt and grief threatened to choke him once more and he needed to let it out somewhere safe. He was looking forward to the day when visiting Sherlock’s grave would give him solace, rather than sorrow. He felt it was still a long way away. 

Catharsis, Lestrade thought bitterly, only worked insofar one actually found some relief. He came away from Sherlock’s grave feeling emptier, sure, but not any better. At least, he shrugged to himself, empty was better than filled with pain.

He pulled out a cigarette as he walked back to the gate of the cemetery, turning against the wind to light it. As he lifted his head again, his eyes fell on a familiar silhouette. 

Lestrade frowned, staring at the man standing in front of a tombstone a few rows to his left, trademark umbrella being used as support, his head slightly bent forward in silent contemplation. He seemed to be alone, but Greg knew better. Looking around, he spotted the security detail, discreetly watching from a safe distance, all but invisible to the untrained eye.

He had not seen Mycroft Holmes in almost six months, not since they had closed the investigation that had cleared Lestrade’s and Sherlock’s names. Years of monthly meetings, of exasperated phone calls, of worried hours in a hospital room, alone at each other’s side because there was nobody else willing to be there. And then Sherlock was gone, and Mycroft was too.

They had been friends. He wanted to think they still were. Yet Mycroft had disappeared, and Lestrade had not tried to reach out. Why, he couldn’t really tell, but there was no hiding that he missed the man, even more than he missed Sherlock. For all that the younger Holmes had left a huge hole in his life, it was the eldest he thought of the most. Because, whereas Sherlock’s absence was unavoidable, Mycroft’s wasn’t, and it nagged at him. 

He hesitated, staring at Mycroft as he took a deep drag on his cigarette. Then, making up his mind, he caught the eyes of one of the security guards and raised both hands just enough to show he meant no harm. The man assessed him for a moment, then nodded. 

Mycroft turned to watch him as he heard his steps on the gravel, his usual assessing gaze sweeping over his body. His face did not betray any emotion. Lestrade had missed that blank stare more than he wanted to admit to himself.

“Hello.”

“Good afternoon, Greg.”

For a moment, they both seemed to have nothing more to add. Lestrade took another long drag, exhaling the smoke slowly. 

“I haven’t seen you in a while.”

Mycroft tilted his head, agreeing with the obvious. “There was no reason to. Nothing to discuss, nobody to rescue from danger.” The corner of his mouth lifted slightly, a bittersweet expression crossing his face. “Or from himself,” he added, and Greg let out a startled huff, shaking his head in disbelief.

“There’s no reason to tiptoe around it, Greg.”

Greg frowned. “It feels— reductive, to talk about it so matter-of-factly.”

Mycroft’s posture did not change, but somehow he still managed to convey the same dismissal that a shrug would have. “It is what it is,” he said, and Greg heard the words echo in his head in John’s voice. He hated them with a passion.

He still nodded, not willing to pick a fight over the way Mycroft grieved for his baby brother. Yet, he couldn’t help wondering how the man managed to be so calm talking about Sherlock, the one person he had rescued time and time again, that he had put even before himself. His greatest pride, as he had once confessed to Lestrade in a bout of rare sincerity, sitting in front of the fireplace at the Diogenes, nursing a glass of scotch he wasn’t really drinking, staring into the flames without really seeing them.

He looked away, finding he couldn’t quite hold Mycroft’s level gaze. He knew his thoughts were most probably transparent to the other man, but he wasn’t quite ready to see what reaction they elicited, if any. Wandering, Lestrade’s eyes fell on the grave in front of them. The simple white stone recited _Linda Davies-Holmes_ , followed by two dates: _1973-2002_. He frowned. He was sure he had never heard of her before. Was this a cousin, perhaps? Some distant relative? He didn’t think he had a right to ask, but couldn’t help turning to Mycroft with a puzzled gaze.

Greg was surprised to find a hint of amusement in the man’s eyes. “We both know you want to ask”, he said. “You might as well.”

He bit his lip, wondering if smiling at a cemetery was bad form. Most probably, he considered, but if anyone saw he could always claim it was Mycroft who did it first. As if anyone would believe him. “Who was she?”

“My wife,” Mycroft answered simply, no inflexion in his voice.   
Greg’s head snapped to him. “Your _what_?”

If Mycroft had been the sort of man who rolled his eyes, he would have, Lestrade was sure. “Wife, Greg. I’m sure you’re familiar with the concept; you did have one for almost a decade.”

Greg let out a small snort. “As if I could ever forget. It’s just— your wife, really? Honestly, I always thought—” He stopped the words from falling out of his mouth, but only just, his brain catching up with what he was about to say in time to realise how inappropriate it would have been. 

“Yes?” Mycroft turned to look at him, eyes searching. Greg felt himself flush in embarrassment and he shook his head, unwilling to finish the sentence. Not that it was necessary. 

“Ah,” hummed Mycroft. “You thought I didn’t care for women.”

Greg scratched the back of his neck, looking bashful. “Well, yeah. Probably not for men, either, to be honest. I thought you’d be above all this, just like your brother. God, and I’m telling you this over your dead wife’s grave. I’m so sorry, that’s wildly insensitive even for me.”

Mycroft actually chuckled at that. “It is quite alright, Greg. She’s been gone for a long time. And I’m sure she would have enjoyed your assessment immensely. She loved to make fun of my public façade.”

Greg smiled a bit at that, wondering what sort of woman could ever end up marrying Mycroft Holmes. “She must have been remarkable, to keep up with you.”

“She was, indeed.” Mycroft sighed. “She was loyal to a fault, too. And that got her into an early grave.”

Greg stared at the dates. She had died at 29. Greg shuddered at the thought of losing his wife so young. They were divorced now, but at that age, Carla had been the most important person of his life. It would have gutted him to lose her. And he couldn’t pry, but Mycroft’s words… Greg thought he understood what he meant. He would not have survived the guilt.

He shuffled on his feet, not sure what to say next but unwilling to end the conversation on such a bitter note. 

“You were, too, I bet,” he offered, eventually. “Are still, given that you keep visiting after all these years.”

Mycroft frowned, staring at the letters carved in the stone for a long moment. Greg let the silence drag out, sensing Mycroft was choosing his words carefully, rather than refraining from answering. 

“I buried a part of me with her, all those years ago,” he said, eventually. “Whenever I come here, it is to mourn her and myself alike.” He had spoken plainly, in his usual unfazed tone but, just behind the surface, Greg could see the sorrow. He could see the broken man, the one still suffering for all the loved ones he had lost too soon. And Greg ached for him, for this strong man who hid behind tailored suits and a blank stare that he actually _did_ feel, that he actually _did_ care. And Greg was honest enough to admit to himself that he cared, too, and though he would never really act on it, and it would always remain in the potential, at least he could let Mycroft know that he saw him, and understood, and did not judge.

“You’ve always been the kind of person who gives too much to others.”

Mycroft stared at him, the tiniest frown crossing his forehead. “I don’t think I know what you mean.”

Greg shrugged, not in dismissal, but to say it was obvious, at least to him. “The way you protected Sherlock, the way you let him lash out at you without really fighting back. You let him take as much as he wanted from you, no matter what it cost you. I’m sure you would have gladly taken his pain upon yourself, if only he’d let you.”

Mycroft took a long time to answer. “He never did, though. And in the end it was all for nothing. I still couldn’t protect him.”

Regret seeped into Greg’s thoughts once more. “Neither could I, Mycroft, for what it’s worth.” He shook his head, letting out a sigh. “I’m sorry, it must be painful to talk about all this. I didn’t mean to pry when I walked up to you. I just wanted to say hello, make sure you were doing OK.”

“I really am quite alright. You need not worry.”

“And yet, worry I do.”

Mycroft looked at him, his eyes searching. “You surprise me,” he said after a moment.

Greg didn’t think there was anything exceptional in what he had just said. He frowned at the other man. “Why would this be surprising? Of course I worry about you. I haven’t seen you in six months, Sherlock is—” He couldn’t make himself say it. “I just mean, we’ve known each other for years, and this is the longest we’ve gone without talking. It would be weird if I weren’t worried. And before you say again that you are perfectly fine, consider I’ve just met you in a cemetery, looming over the grave of your wife, where, by your admission, you come to mourn yourself as much as her. You’d be worried, too, if the roles were reversed.”

“Ah, but aren’t they really? I did meet you in a cemetery, after all, Greg. And weren’t you ‘looming’ over my brother’s tombstone minutes ago?”

Greg narrowed his eyes. “Does that mean that you _are_ worried, too, or were you trying to prove that you are perfectly fine, just as I am? Because I am not, and I don’t think I will be for a long time, and I see no shame in admitting it.”

Mycroft gave him a long, assessing stare. “Let’s grab something warm to drink, shall we?”

Greg did not hide his surprise at the non sequitur, but nodded all the same. Mycroft stared at the tombstone for a long moment, and Greg was surprised to see a complex expression on his face, one he could not really interpret. 

When Mycroft spoke, his voice was little more than a whisper. “She would have liked you immensely. She would be glad to know you are in my life.”

And Greg did not know what to make of that, or of the warm feeling that settled in his chest as he registered the words.

**

Mycroft did not speak until they reached his private rooms at the Diogenes. Greg was used to his long silences and kept to himself, staring out of the tinted window of the car as he processed the new, wildly unexpected information on the man sitting next to him. 

Mycroft used to have a wife. He had been a husband. Half of a couple. How could he have been so far off the mark? Wasn’t heterosexuality the usual assumption? How much wishful thinking had gone into that blatant oversight?

Greg did not let out the sigh that was gathering in his lungs. He knew, had known for a very long time, that he was attracted to Mycroft. He had never actually believed it would evolve into anything else, nor that it would be well received, had he dared to confess. Learning that the man had been married to a woman changed nothing, per se. Yet Greg felt like sighing. He and Mycroft shared a comfortable friendship. He cared about the man, deeply, and in his own strange way, Greg knew Mycroft did, too. It had been easy to settle for friendship when he thought the other was uninterested in relationships. It had been easy to accept that the man would not want him because he simply wanted no one. But Mycroft used to be married, and that knowledge stung, and perhaps it did change everything.

Greg felt a question bubble up, as irrational as it was unavoidable: _why her?_ Which, of course, actually meant: _why not me?_

And it was such a silly question, he considered. Not you, first of all, because you have never told him you are interested. And yet, his brain supplied, Mycroft rarely needed things to be spelt out for him to understand them. It wasn’t such a wild assumption to think he knew about Greg and kept quiet.

Not you, because you are a man. Funny that, he thought bitterly. He’d always assumed it would be Mycroft that would worry about that, if one of them had to. 

Not you, perhaps, because you’re not her. And about that, there was nothing Greg could do. He swallowed another sigh as they walked past closed doors along carpeted corridors. Who was she? What was she like? She must have been phenomenal, to capture Mycroft’s attention. 

He resolved to ask, as delicately as possible, and if Mycroft chose not to answer, he would try to let it go. They had an ongoing agreement not to go behind the other’s back, if at all possible. Greg would not dig into the matter if Mycroft didn’t want to share this with him. But he sorely hoped he would.

The silence lasted until they were settled into the armchairs in front of the fireplace, tea brewing on the small table between them.

“I have a confession to make, Greg,” muttered Mycroft, his hands coming to rest under his chin in a gesture that reminded him of Sherlock.

“Another one?” he answered with a small smile.

Mycroft’s lips twitched in amusement. “It really came as a surprise to you that I was married, didn’t it?”

“You could say that, I guess. I would probably use stronger words, myself.”

“Is it really so unimaginable?”

Greg shook his head. “It’s just unexpected. You’ve never mentioned her in all these years. And honestly, I cannot imagine what sort of person would keep your interest long enough to actually have you marry her. I just— I guess I’ve never given it much thought, about what you might like in a woman.” Which was only half a lie, he supposed. 

Mycroft arched one eyebrow, humming. “And so you would like to know about Linda.” 

Greg nodded. “But I don’t want you to feel obliged. I am just curious.”

Mycroft stared at him for a long moment. Greg suspected the man knew there was more to it than simple curiosity, but wasn’t yet sure what ‘more’ was. Greg hoped Mycroft would not connect the dots too quickly.

“What would you like to know?”

Greg shrugged. He hadn’t really come up with straight questions. He asked the first that popped up in his mind. 

“How did you meet her?”

Mycroft smiled. “I’m sure you’ll like this, it’ll appeal to your romantic side. It was all very cliché, you see. She was my secretary. My very first, to be precise. I had just acquired a less active position in my profession, and my superiors assigned her to me. They thought she would be a good match. They were not wrong.”

Greg snorted. “Man, that really is cliché. You married your secretary. And let me guess, did you cheat on your previous partner with her, too?”

“Oh, don’t be so crass, now. Linda was a very respectable woman.” Mycroft threw him a sidelong glance. “She made sure all my previous partners were disposed of before she let me make a move,” he added, deadpan, and Greg almost choked on his tea. 

“When you say ‘disposed of’, you don’t mean…”

Mycroft chuckled, but didn’t answer.

Greg stared.

“So was she like Anthea today? Incredibly attractive, incredibly lethal?”

“Ah, Anthea would be very pleased by your description, I believe. No, Linda was much more of a traditional secretary, if you want. Attractive for sure, but I did marry her after all. She had a purely administrative role, and she was absolutely brilliant at it. She had an incredible knack for management. And she was witty and gentle, not two very common features in my field, as you can imagine.”

“Is that why you fell for her?”

Mycroft hummed affirmatively. “Among other things. She just— she could see right through me. She knew when I was tired, or irritated, or worried, and even though she never said it out loud, she outmanoeuvred me so that I would eat, sleep, take a break now and then. She rearranged my schedule so that I wouldn’t overwork myself. She made me find my favourite tea ready on my desk when I had a bad meeting. It was the small things that made me love her. Also very cliché, I gather. She was a reassuring presence in my life, when everyone else was out to either hurt me or take advantage of me. And she truly could stand her ground, when she felt she was in the right. It made me go mental, and I loved it at the same time. I haven’t met many people in my life who can stand up to me. I hold them all in high regard.”

“So she was just…” Greg gestured with his hand, trying to find the right word. “Normal?”

“Normal?” echoed Mycroft.

Greg felt himself flush. “I mean, a regular person? No incredible intelligence, no mind-reading powers like you?”

“Quite so. She was a very intelligent woman, highly capable in her profession, but I believe you would have described her as ‘normal.’ I’ve never seen the appeal of women like Irene Adler, if that’s where your mind was going. I value intelligence, but I value kindness and loyalty, too. And I value people who aren’t out for power.”

“I guess I just thought you’d get bored, being with a regular person like that.”

Mycroft turned to face him fully, not hiding his amusement. “Greg, you’ll forgive me my bluntness, but have I ever given you the impression to be bored in your company?”

Greg stared at him for a moment, speechless, trying not to read too much into Mycroft’s words. “Well, no. But we are friends.”

Mycroft nodded. “She was my friend, too, long before we were anything else. You are quite right, Greg. I do not enjoy spending time with the vast majority of people, but that is because I can see their ugliness, rather than their stupidity. I take a look at them and read their pettiness, their avidity, their malevolence. But not everyone is like that. Those that aren’t, as rare as they might be, are the reason why I do my job. And at times, despite everything, I find myself caring.”

Greg didn’t know how to answer. Mycroft had all but admitted he included him in the very selective group of people whom he cared for. A group that was composed of, to his knowledge, a handful of people at best. But he was certainly reading too much into it. He knew that Mycroft cared about him; as nice as it was to hear him say it plainly, it still didn’t mean there was ground for anything more than a friendship between them. But he was too smart not to see the similarities. Witty, loyal, honest, uninterested in power, used to take absolutely none of Mycroft’s bullshit. And he did manage to look after Mycroft from time to time, in the rare occasions when he noticed the signs of exhaustion and made sure the man ate and slept as much as he would allow himself without beating himself up for it. Greg shook his head minutely. He was just reading too much into it.

“You are not reading too much into it, Greg.”

Greg’s head snapped to Mycroft. “I beg your pardon?”

Mycroft stared at the flames, cradling his cup of tea. “I am sure you can see Linda’s qualities in yourself. It is only natural that you are wondering if I— Well, it should not be such a surprise that I am drawn to you.”

“Drawn to me?”

Mycroft hummed in assent, but didn’t elaborate. Greg felt wildly wrong-footed. Was Mycroft really implying…? But it couldn’t be. Not once in all those years had he suspected his interest was reciprocated. Not once, not a hint. It couldn’t be. Yet Greg felt hope, treacherous hope, blooming in his chest. He didn’t dare speak plainly, yet Greg yearned for clarity, even though he himself seemed unable to offer some.

Silence fell between them, as they both reflected on their next move.

“It appears, after all, that we have reached an impasse,” Mycroft said after a moment, smiling wistfully.

Greg frowned. “How do you mean?”

“Correct me if I am wrong, but I believe we are both harbouring some difficult confessions, and we are both hesitating to reveal our hand for fear of how it will be received. So the real question is, will we let this go unspoken?”

“Will we keep tiptoeing around the subject, you mean?”

“Ah, so you admit there is a subject.”

“I don’t know, what were you talking about?”

“A blunt approach, I see. I am afraid it will take much more finesse to make me show my hand first.”

Greg bit his lip. “I’d say you have perhaps let me have a sneak peek, though. And you do nothing without a reason, which makes me think you know I will be tempted to give you a preview of sorts in return.”

Mycroft did not put much effort into hiding his smirk. “Will you?”

“What are the odds?”

“I dare say 63 to 37 you’ll admit it first. Which can either speak of your courage or my cowardice, depending on who you ask.”

“Ah, but Mycroft. Haven’t you just beat me to it, in a way?”

Mycroft met Greg’s gaze, unafraid, without hesitation, a conspiratorial smile softening his features. “I suppose I have, in a way.”

Greg snorted. “That was the sneakiest declaration ever. But me too, I guess.”

“You too what?”

Greg made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “Am drawn to you, to use your very vague and highly interpretable words.”

“Now Greg, there’s no need to be all—” and he mimicked Greg’s movement. “It seems to me like the message came across just fine. And it is a rather important one.”

Greg shifted in his armchair, his whole body turning towards Mycroft. “It really is, isn’t it?”

Mycroft nodded. “It feels rather refreshing, to have it out in the open between us. Rather momentous, too.”

“I’ll still say we’re keeping this conversation on the highly interpretable side of the spectrum.”

“Would you rather make yourself more clear?

Greg stared at him, assessing the man sitting next to him, not so much baring his soul as granting Greg the tiniest glimpse of it. It was enough to make a gamble.

“I think so. Mycroft, I treasure our friendship, I think it’s wonderful. Care to see how much better things between us can be?”

Right then, Mycroft could have pointed to the fact that, as predicted, Greg had admitted it first in explicit terms, but he found he couldn't care less about being right.

“I believe I would like that very much.”

“Even if I am a man?” Greg blurted out.

Mycroft gave him such an appalled look that Greg had to laugh, and after a moment, Mycroft followed. 

“Yes, my dear, even if you are a man.”

And as he reached out and cupped Mycroft’s cheek, Greg muttered victoriously, “I knew I wasn’t wrong about you liking men,” and then proceeded to swallow Mycroft’s amused laugh right from his lips.

Kissing Mycroft felt right. Just right, Greg mused. It was great, and exciting, and overwhelming, yes, all that. But it was mainly, simply, right. Like it was always meant to happen and their bodies knew that, and made sure they were prepared for it. 

He ended up straddling Mycroft’s thighs, wiggling to fit his knees in what little space there was on the armchair, no finesse whatsoever. Mycroft didn’t seem to mind one bit as he pulled him closer, threading his fingers through Greg’s hair.

It was glorious in its spontaneity. When they came up for air, Greg rested his forehead against Mycroft’s. They were both panting, sharing their breaths. He stared into Mycroft’s pale blue eyes, searching. He found no regret, no doubt. Just a sort of assuredness, of certainty. Mycroft had known all along, he was pretty sure. If they had ended up where they currently were, it was because Mycroft had decided it was about time they acted upon their feelings. 

“Was this the confession you wanted to make?”

Mycroft arched an eyebrow.

“When we arrived, you said you had a confession to make, and then we got sidetracked talking about your wife. Was this what you meant to confess? That you wanted me?”

Mycroft hesitated. Greg watched him as he made up his mind. 

“In truth, it wasn’t. But I think we have revealed enough long-coveted secrets for today, Greg. It can wait.”

And as Greg let himself be dragged into another kiss, he had to agree that whatever it was, this was much better.

**

It was only three months later, as they sat in a similar position in front of a different fireplace at Mycroft’s house, that Greg found out what Mycroft had meant to tell him.

“Alive?” he echoed the word Mycroft had just uttered.

The other man nodded, looking at him with a hint of apprehension.

Alive. Sherlock was alive, and Mycroft had trusted him with his most precious piece of information. It was too momentous to process it all in one go. It felt like a declaration of intent, it felt like a promise. Never in his life had he been given something of such rare and immense beauty. He squeezed Mycroft’s hands once, brought them both to his lips and kissed his knuckles. 

And then Greg let out a breath, one that he had been holding for almost fifteen months, stared into Mycroft’s eyes, and simply said, “Thank you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading until the end!


End file.
